


This Bed thy Center

by flashofthefuse



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, pff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 00:39:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8469127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashofthefuse/pseuds/flashofthefuse
Summary: Jack wakes for the first time in Phryne's bed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not great at smut, so this is my rather tame contribution to @firesign's PFF.

The sun had found the crack in the curtains and crept in, slanting across the satin bedcover.

_“Busy old fool”_ he thought, understanding now how Donne had felt. Jack had good reason to resent the interference this morning.

It was undeniable evidence that the night was over. A night that had taken an unexpected, but welcome turn. A night he wanted never to end.

He was careful to keep very still so as not to wake her, because until she woke, he could pretend a bit longer. Pretend this wasn’t such an extraordinary morning. Pretend all his mornings might be like this one. Pretend there was no where else in the world to be but at her side.

Besides, she looked so peaceful and lovely. He wanted to keep looking at her.

Even in sleep she glowed. Her face was free of makeup, her hair tousled, and her body shed of its usual sartorial elegance, making her look small and fragile, yet still she breathed the very life into the room. She was light, air and color. She was everything.

He felt a tightness in his chest. A sudden loss of the air in his lungs.

She shifted, rolling to one side, her arm winging out beside her, her hand coming to rest above his elbow.

Without opening her eyes she groped along his arm, squeezing his bicep and sliding her hand up onto his shoulder as if blindly trying to identify him. Her eyes blinked open.

“You’re here,” she said, sounding somewhat surprised.

He inhaled sharply. She’d asked him to stay. Hadn’t she? Or, had he only dreamt that?

“Uh, yes.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Still here. But, I can go. It is getting late and you must be—”

“Must be what?” She propped herself up on an elbow and looked at him with a bemused smirk. Her hair fell adorably across her face and he could feel himself color, the heat rising in his cheeks.

“Finish your thought,” she teased. “Or, shall I finish it for you? What must I be, Jack? Tired? Ready to be rid of you?”

Her eyes followed as her hand slipped from his shoulder, moving across his chest, gently caressing him before coming to rest above his heart, which was beating so forcefully he was sure she could feel it.

“I sincerely hope you are neither of those things,” he said in a voice not much more than a whisper. She raised her eyes to his and what he saw there caused his lips to curve into a slow, small smile. He knew his expression gave him away and he could not have cared less.

“Although I should be, I am not the least bit tired,” she said with a devilish smile, “I am also nowhere near ready to be rid of you.”

She slid closer, twisting her body to align with his and trailing her foot along his calf. She reached for his hand, pulling it around her waist.

He pressed his open palm to the small of her back and drew her soft, warm body tight to his, dropping his head to capture her lips in a kiss.

Sharp jolts of electricity raced through him. He felt the slow slipping away of his mind as he sunk into the black velvet pull of desire. Her hands roamed over him, desperately clinging and urging him on. Her name fell from his lips and her voice sounded in his ear uttering words he’d longed to hear from her alone.

After, he held her gently, her nose coming to rest in the little crook between his neck and shoulder as she nuzzled into him. For a long, delirious minute neither spoke nor moved.

She turned her head, her hair tickling his chest and sending a little thrill down his spine. The sun through the window seemed brighter now, bringing him back to the reality at hand.

“What’s on your mind?” she asked, her tone suddenly serious. She didn’t raise her head to look at him, but he felt her stiffen slightly.

“What makes you think I’ve anything on my mind?”

“You’re patting my back. Nobody pats like that unless they have something on their mind.”

“Is that so? Where’d you hear that? Seems a lot to make of a small gesture,” He said, stilling his hand.

“You’re stalling, Inspector. What is it?”

He sighed. She was far too good at reading him. Damn her.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, Jack,” she gently demanded, drawing little circles over his chest and abdomen but keeping her head down as though she knew looking at him would only make it harder for him to speak.

“You said some things,” he began.

“I did,” she affirmed.

“Throes of passion?” he asked.

“Well, yes. But that doesn’t make it untrue.”

“Really?”

“Irrevocably, I’m afraid.” She sounded resigned, but not defeated, or unhappy.

The air between them hung heavy and charged. Her head rose and fell along with his heaving chest. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and wrapped his arms tight around her, anchoring her to him.

“Me too,” he said. “Always.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>   The poem Jack thinks of at the beginning of the story is the following:
> 
> The Sun Rising by John Donne
> 
> Busy old fool, unruly sun,  
>                Why dost thou thus,  
> Through windows, and through curtains call on us?  
> Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?  
>                Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide  
>                Late school boys and sour prentices,  
>          Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,  
>          Call country ants to harvest offices,  
> Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,  
> Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
> 
>                Thy beams, so reverend and strong  
>                Why shouldst thou think?  
> I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,  
> But that I would not lose her sight so long;  
>                If her eyes have not blinded thine,  
>                Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,  
>          Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine  
>          Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.  
> Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,  
> And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.
> 
>                She's all states, and all princes, I,  
>                Nothing else is.  
> Princes do but play us; compared to this,  
> All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy.  
>                Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,  
>                In that the world's contracted thus.  
>          Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be  
>          To warm the world, that's done in warming us.  
> Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;  
> This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.


End file.
